


As Moths in the Flame

by octoberburns



Series: The Almèreva Revolution [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Fantasy Venice, Institutionalized Homophobia, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Other, Queer Culture, Student Agitators, Totalitarian regime, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoberburns/pseuds/octoberburns
Summary: Baldasera Sanuto is an ogre, in a city that has rarely been kind to his people. He has found belonging only in a scant few places: in the moth clubs; in the ogres' quarter; in the lecture halls of the Faculty of Natural Philosophy, where he is studying to be a physician—and in the company of Micola Chavalerio, unwilling scion of a conservative royalist household and student of Almèreva's famed (and notoriously radical) College of Mages.When this all began, he was just looking for a friend. But Micola is brilliant, and beautiful, and living a dangerous double life that terrifies Baldasera beyond all reason. But how can he begin to keep them safe when he's never had any kind of safety himself—and, for that matter, when they were never even his to begin with?
Series: The Almèreva Revolution [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660561
Comments: 8
Kudos: 7





	As Moths in the Flame

**Author's Note:**

> This story is exactly why nobody is allowed to give me more complex prompts than they already do. What was I asked for? A look into the life of an ogre of Almèreva, with a particular interest in one who attends the university. What do you get? Ten thousand words of fraught queer struggle under systems of societal oppression. Why am I incapable of sticking to my self-assigned brief of "one to two thousand words?" The world may never know. I certainly don't.
> 
> This is a sequel to Night Falls on Sovereign Almèreva, thought not a direct sequel. Regardless, it will probably make more sense if you read that first.
> 
> Once again, thanks to Ashley, Alex, and all the rest for your support, and also to everyone who suffered me screaming about this story while I sent my sleep schedule into yet another tailspin this past week.

Antelini Hall was one of the older buildings in the Faculty of Natural Philosophy. From the exterior it was airy and graceful, built of delicate cream brick and faced in Almèreva’s characteristic fine limestone arches and columns. Most people never gave a thought to what its interior must look like—and so it was always a surprise to new students to walk inside and be faced, not with marble floors and palatial vistas, but with the rust-red stucco and aged wooden beams that distinguished most of the ordinary homes of the city. For all its grand exterior, it was a working building, and had been designed to be used.

This was a problem for Baldasera Sanuto, as the people who had designed it—like all the oldest buildings in Almèreva—had been elves.

He could hardly fault the faculty themselves: they had only inherited the problem, and made do as best they could under the circumstances. In the century since the university had begun accepting ogres, they had made all the accommodations they could without gutting and rebuilding the entire interior—a costly renovation they simply didn’t have the funding for, especially in the decades since the Prince’s ascent. They had enlarged all the doorways—or those that could be enlarged without threatening the structural integrity of the walls, at least—and exchanged the hanging chandeliers for wall sconces in the lower-ceilinged rooms. A bank of benches in every lecture hall had been ripped out and replaced with ones of an appropriate size and solidity to seat ogres; these had been commissioned in his grandfather’s day, from a family that still lived in their neighbourhood.

Of course, there were still some rooms the ogre students couldn’t comfortably enter. But most of the masters and academic societies were understanding about where they held their meetings—and the lecture halls, at least, were generally quite acceptable, which was by far the most significant concern.

Today’s lecture of anatomy was on the skeletal structure of the dwarves. Baldasera had his doubts about whether, as a physician, he would ever have cause to treat a dwarf: they had their own tradition of medicine, which was highly regarded. But he had been taking dutiful notes for the past hour regardless.

He was one of the few. The lecturer, Master Soranzo, had a dry way of speaking, and many of her students had long ago descended into boredom.

“As you can see, the pelvic structure is broad. Note the unique reinforcement located here—and here,” Soranzo was saying, tapping her pointer against the relevant components of the outsize anatomical drawing suspended at the front of the hall. Baldasera squinted through his spectacles, bringing the diagram into focus. “This means that, despite their smaller stature, dwarves are capable of bearing significantly more strain to the hips than the average elf…”

“It’s true,” said the ogre seated behind Baldasera, just barely in an undertone. “Ask me how I know.”

Someone next to him flicked him in the back of the head. “We all know how you know, Viadro,” she said wearily.

“I’m just saying. If you have the opportunity, choose a dwarf.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Your loss,” Viadro said.

“Why are you fucking dwarves anyway?” rumbled the ogre on Baldasera’s right, a man by the name of Fanutio. “Aren’t you engaged?”

Viadro made a dismissive noise. “We’re not getting married for another five months,” he said. “Besides, I’ve only met her twice. I hardly expect her to wait for me either.”

As the lecture droned on, Baldasera’s seatmates broke into a fiercely whispered discussion on extramarital affairs, the relative merits of fidelity, and the sexual prowess of dwarves. Several of them, it seemed, had had their marriages arranged, though only one had yet had her wedding. He stopped listening at that point. Resolutely he pushed his spectacles back up his nose, bent his head to his notes, and did his best to ignore them.

_“When are you going to let me introduce you to the Dandolo girl, Seruccio?” his grandfather says. He is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching as Baldasera buttons himself into the black scholar’s robe he wears whenever he goes to the university. “They’re a good family. I could arrange everything for you.”_

_“I’ve met her, Nonno,” Baldasera says. He adjusts his robe, then settles his shawl over his shoulders, knotting it loosely in the front. “She works at her mother’s fish shop.”_

_His grandfather flips his hand, as if brushing that thought away. “You’ve met, yes. That’s not a proper introduction. I’m talking about announcing your intent.”_

_“I don’t have any intent. She’s very nice, but I don’t want to marry her,” Baldasera says. He keeps his voice light—like it doesn’t really matter, like the very idea doesn’t fill him with weary despair—and slings the satchel containing his portable writing desk over his shoulder. “Besides, I’m busy with my studies.”_

_There is still a dissatisfied twist to his grandfather’s mouth, but nevertheless he comes over to allow Baldasera to kiss his cheek before he leaves. “I just want to see you happy, Seruccio.”_

_“I know, Nonno.”_

_“When I was your age I was already settled down and raising your mother.”_

_“I know, Nonno,” Baldasera repeats. “But I’m fine, really. Becoming a physician is important to me.”_

_His grandfather’s mouth eases at that, his tusks softening back into line with his lips. He sighs, patting Baldasera’s shoulder. “I know it is, boy. I suppose you’d best get going. You don’t want to be late.”_

Master Soranzo spoke for another twenty-five minutes before she wrapped things up. With her curt dismissal, the hall seemed to come alive, and there was a general scramble as the students made their escape. Baldasera took his time, stowing his papers and quill in his portable desk, capping his ink pot carefully, waiting for the rush of smaller peoples to move out of the way so he wouldn’t have to risk bumping anyone.

“Sanuto? You interested?”

He glanced up and found several of his seatmates looking at him.

“Pardon me,” he said. “Interested in what?”

It was Fanutio who had spoken. “We’re going to get a table at the Final Cause,” he said. “Did you want to come?”

The Final Cause was a student tavern, frequented almost exclusively by the Faculty of Natural Philosophy. The interior was a little tight to be comfortable, but they also had their own covered courtyard with ogre-sized tables, which made for an excellent place to carouse, play cards, and engage in spirited debate.

“I appreciate the offer, but I have another lecture,” Baldasera said. “Say hello for me.”

He bid a friendly farewell to the other ogres on the steps of Antelini Hall: they were turning west and heading down a side street towards the tavern, while he was crossing the plaza in the other direction and continuing on to the College of Mages. Once he was alone he let his eagerness speed his feet, carrying himself over the cobblestones in great strides that set the skirts of his robe swirling behind him. Around him a sea of his fellow black-clad academics went about their business, hurrying to lectures or tutorials or meetings, to luncheon or to one of the student taverns, to the university library or down to the nearby canal to join the impromptu lesson on the movement of the tides that had sprung up there. Most of the other students were elves or dwarves, but there were some ogres among the crowd as well—always visible over the throng due to their bulk—and all of them nodded back to him as they passed each other.

Baldasera crossed the canal, following the familiar route through the bridges and alleys of the University quarter on his way to the historical College. He had nearly reached it when he was by chance accosted by a group of the Prince’s supporters.

He was still walking down streets populated largely by other academics, and didn’t notice anything unusual about the crowd until it was too late. Quite casually they swarmed around him, blocking his path and hemming him in on both sides. “Ugh,” said the man who had stopped directly in front of him—looking him right in the eye, but addressing his companions. “I can’t believe they let _that_ into the university. Standards really have slipped.”

He was an elf, of course: fine-boned, elegant, with thick dark hair that hung in a smooth plait to the middle of his back. He had the light brown skin that marked most of the elven aristocracy of Almèreva, and there was a precise tailoring to his robe that more clearly than anything else said _money_. He was smirking up at Baldasera like it was utterly inconceivable that he might retaliate, while around him his friends gave each other mean glances or laughed into their hands.

Baldasera said nothing.

_Baldasera’s robe is black, the uniform of a scholar; his shawl is deep blue, new, chosen specifically to compliment the dark colour of the robe. His mother fusses, her restless hands tweaking them into place, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles, adjusting the fit in imperceptibly minute ways. It is his first day attending the University of Almèreva, and she is afraid to let him go. “I wish you wouldn’t wear the shawl,” she says. “It’ll just make you a target.”_

_His whole family is in the front room to see him off, aside from his older brother Raniero, who no longer lives at home. His mother, his father, his grandfather, his two little sisters—every one of them is wearing a soft cotton shawl, each coloured to their tastes and knotted loosely about their shoulders._

_“Mamma,” he admonishes gently, and takes her hands. “I’ll be fine. It won’t make me any more of a target than I already am. There’s no mistaking me for anything but an ogre, the shawl won’t change that.”_

_“I know, I know, it’s just—I hate to think of you getting into trouble out there, without any of us to help you,” she frets. “They say the Seneschal has it out for the university, and the Veiled Penitent knows he’s never looked kindly on our people either—”_

_“Let him alone, Agneta,” his father says. “Seruccio has a good head on his shoulders.”_

_His father had been up late the night before in the back room of his shop, finishing the adjustments to Baldasera’s robe, and Baldasera couldn’t possibly be fonder. “We talked about this, Mamma. I’m going to go to my lectures, study hard, and keep my head down. Don’t worry about me. I won’t get into trouble, I promise.”_

_He goes around the room, kissing them all goodbye. His youngest sister presses a gift into his hands: it’s her favourite ink pot. His grandfather places his hand on his forehead in benediction, like he’s a child again, and gives him a decisive nod. “You’ll do us proud, boy.”_

_“I hope so, Nonno,” Baldasera says, and puts his arms around him._

There was a brief pause where the elf clearly expected Baldasera to speak, but he recovered swiftly when it became apparent no protest was coming. “You brutes don’t belong here,” he said. “I hear the Prince is planning to come down hard on the administration. I can’t wait until that happens. You ought to do us all a favour and just go back to the slum you came from.”

The university had proven time and again that the Prince didn’t have the power to stop them admitting who they liked, but Baldasera wasn’t so foolish as to say so. “Please excuse me, signore. I have a lecture.”

“Oh, a _lecture_ ,” the elf said. “And what are you studying? The properties of shit? Or do you think that by coming to our university you can somehow better yourself, as though you could rub out the stain of your filth?”

Not the worst Baldasera had heard. He kept his voice even. “Please excuse me,” he repeated.

“‘Please excuse me,’” the elf parroted back mockingly, and reached up to tweak the ends of Baldasera’s shawl. “What, are you too dull to even come up with a real answer? I suppose they’ll let just about anyone through the entrance exam these days.”

Well, they did admit you, Baldasera thought, and then had to bite his tongue to keep from saying. He casually twitched his shawl back out of the elf’s reach. Absurdly, he wanted to laugh: it was almost comical, how threatened they were by his mere presence—or would have been, if it hadn’t been so potentially dangerous. He wasn’t alone on the street with them, but the students brushing past were taking care to avert their eyes. No one would be coming to his aid.

“Wait,” interrupted one of the others abruptly. “I recognize this one.”

“How can you tell?” quipped a wit from the back of the group. “These brutes all look the same. I can’t even tell if this one is a man or a woman.”

The first speaker ignored him. “I’ve seen it at some of my natural philosophy lectures,” she said. “It thinks it’s going to be a _physician_.”

The rest of the elves tittered incredulously. The ringleader looked to his friends, then back at Baldasera, his eyes glittering with malice. “Let it. Ogres are too stupid to study medicine. The more of them this would-be physician kills, the better, right?”

Still Baldasera said nothing, but now there was a hot curl of fury burning in his belly. He wanted to spit in the man’s face. He wanted to recite the names of the unbroken lineage of ogre scholars going all the way back to the beginnings of recorded history, a genealogy to which he would one day be permitted to add his name himself. He wanted to lecture them on the innovations of the barber-surgeons, under whom he had apprenticed for three years before beginning his university studies—a trade that had been developed by his own people, and had been taught to the elves and the dwarves when the first ogres came to Almèreva. He imagined them shamed, furious, doubting, and the temptation to open his mouth was overwhelming. But he knew they wouldn’t listen. No matter what he said, they would only twist it against him.

And he had promised his mother he would stay out of trouble.

_“Do you remember the herbs, Seruccio?” his mother says._

_Baldasera is eight years old, and his middle sister Elisabetta is sick again. His mother has been up all night tending to her, and now she is busy trying to make breakfast with a toddler underfoot. He has always liked to take care of others, and has long been fascinated by the way ordinary plants and spices can be combined into medicines that make people better, as if by magic._

_“I know it, Mamma,” he says. “I can make it. Honest.”_

_His mother spares him a brief glance, then scoops his youngest sister out of the way of the fire. “Very well. Go to the herb garden and pick some fresh.”_

_When he comes back in with mint, basil, and thyme for her inspection, she just nods in satisfaction and points him towards the hearth._

_There is already hot water over the fire; carefully, Baldasera wraps his hands in a towel and lifts the kettle down, slow and steady and in control. He gets an earthenware mug from the shelf over the counter, crushes up the herbs, and pours the water in, spilling only a little on the surface of the table. He hangs the kettle back over the fire, and when he turns around his mother is already holding out the jar of honey to him. He drizzles in a spoonful or two, swirls the liquid around to mix it with the herbs, and then lifts the mug in both hands and cautiously carries his precious cargo all the way to the bedroom._

_Elisabetta rouses slightly when he pushes the door open. “Seruccio?” she says, her voice raspy and thick with sleep. “What is it?”_

_Baldasera sets the mug down on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed. “It’s okay, Besina. I’m here,” he says, smoothing her hair back from her fevered brow. “I brought medicine.”_

Baldasera breathed out slowly through his nose. “As you say, signore,” he said, and then repeated a third time, “Please excuse me.”

The elf’s face twisted. “Penitent’s tears, what the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped. “Are you being smart with me?”

But before Baldasera could answer, a familiar voice interrupted. “Sanuto! There you are!”

“Chavalerio,” he replied, not bothering to keep the relief from his voice as the person who had addressed him strode up to the group. Micola Chavalerio had long legs for an elf and the same aristocratic bearing as the royalists harassing Baldasera—and had no qualms about making use of both to stalk through them, arrogantly projecting the expectation that no one would get in their way.

No one did. “Chavalerio,” the leader said, giving a frosty nod to the new arrival.

“Bondemiro,” Micola replied, equally cold, and then paid him no more mind. They turned to Baldasera. “I’m glad I found you. Della Scalla’s lecture is supposed to start in fifteen minutes, we’ll need to hurry if we want to get decent seats.”

“Of course,” Baldasera said, like he had just been caught up in an interesting discussion and hadn’t noticed the time. “Your pardon, signores, signoras.”

Micola had spun on their heel and walked off already, their robe flaring behind them; Baldasera followed, not giving Bondemiro or his lackeys the chance to respond. Neither of them spoke, or looked back. They didn’t even pause until they had turned two corners and crossed another canal, when Micola exhaled all at once and seemed to slump, turning back to Baldasera.

“Are you alright?” they said. “They looked like they wanted to hurt you. Watch out for Bondemiro, he’s a piece of work.”

“So I gathered,” Baldasera said. “I’m fine, don’t worry. It was just talk.”

Micola studied him for a long moment, and Baldasera—his heart in his throat—allowed himself to look back.

Micola was beautiful; there was no other word for it. Their jaw was sharply defined, their nose just slightly aquiline and broad at the tip, their skin light brown and dusted across their cheeks with a constellation of barely-there freckles. Like all elves, their ears were pointed; like most mages, they wore tinted lenses, concealing fiery orange eyes behind oval spectacles nearly identical in design to Baldasera’s own, but for the dark amber-red of the glass. Their hair was deep auburn, straight and thick, chopped just shy of brushing their shoulders; they wore the black robe of a scholar with a careless grace that would have befitted the finest actor. Their hands were the only part of their appearance not given to elegance, and all the more charming for it: they were long-fingered, knobby-knuckled, and always stained with ink.

Baldasera wanted to pull them into his arms, to bend his head to theirs and breathe in the scent of their hair and just hold onto someone who cared for him. There were so many reasons he couldn’t: they were in public, an ogre and an elven aristocrat, the rebellious heir to a conservative royalist house and a man whose family was worried enough knowing he was an academic, let alone a sexual deviant consorting with mages and radicals. It wasn’t safe for two men to exchange any sort of public tenderness in Almèreva—and if Micola wasn’t a man, well, that wasn’t exactly what one might call a _prudent defence_. And then there were the terms of their own agreement to consider. Micola had, after all, never asked for a lover.

All the same, he ached for it, so fiercely that for a moment he thought the desire might choke him.

_The first time he fucks Micola, it’s in a tiny third floor bedroom, rented by the hour. They’re at a moth club—what they call the gathering places for those individuals the Almèrevan administration has deemed to be sexually deviant. Some clubs are social parlours, taverns, hidden cafés, theatres; others are simply for sex. Baldasera had come to this one hoping for nothing more complex than a blowjob and some friendly conversation in the company of naked men. Instead he’s found a smart-mouthed mage with mesmerizing eyes and a wicked smile, who seems intent on wringing him out entirely._

_It must be at least two hours later when Micola at last rises from the bed—how they have the energy, Baldasera cannot fathom—and starts picking up their clothes from where he’d dropped them in his haste to bare their skin. “I’m here often,” they say, quite casually. “Most Thursday evenings.”_

_Baldasera is still catching his breath. “Is that an invitation?” he says._

_Micola casts him a very dry look. “No, darling, I’m telling you so I can avoid the inconvenience of seeing you again. Of course it’s a fucking invitation.”_

_Baldasera sits up and has to bite back a groan at the pleasant ache in his hips. “Are you a student?” he says. All mages in Almèreva are associated in some way with the College—it’s something of a permanent appointment—but he can’t begin to guess their age. The fire of their eyes and the red of their lip stain is too distracting._

_“I am, for my sins,” Micola says. They’ve pulled their undershirt and trousers on again, the evidence of Baldasera’s hands on their body disappearing piece by piece. “Why?”_

_“I am too,” Baldasera says, and reaches for his own shirt. “Natural Philosophy. I just thought—perhaps we’ve more convenient ways to see each other again?”_

_Micola pauses, halfway through dabbing their lip stain off with their handkerchief. “I’m not after some grand romance,” they say at last._

_Baldasera has to laugh. “Nor am I,” he assures them. “But it might be nice to have a friend.”_

_Micola hums thoughtfully as they remove their earrings, folding them into the handkerchief and tucking them away. “In that case, certainly. And don’t concern yourself: we needn’t worry about setting a meeting,” they add, their eyes flashing to him one last time before they conceal them again behind their lenses. “I’ll be able to find you.”_

Perhaps Micola could read on his face the truth of how shaken his encounter had left him. For a brief moment their expression gentled out of its usual amused disdain, and they touched his upper arm—that swift gesture the most they could make without arousing suspicion. “Don’t let them get to you,” they said. “You’re worth a hundred of them.” And then, before Baldasera could process such a surprisingly heartfelt remark, they added, “Now let’s go, I wasn’t joking about getting decent seats.”

They fell in side by side as they started down the street to the College of Mages again. Moving helped Baldasera to relax back into normality, and after a moment he said, “Thank you. For coming to my rescue, that is.”

“Oh, please, I couldn’t very well allow you be waylaid,” they said, their tone dismissive, a pleased smile on their lips. “You seemed so eager to audit this series.”

In truth, while the lectures had been interesting so far, what he had been eager for was the chance to spend time with Micola and their friends. Baldasera wisely kept that to himself. “I hope you won’t come to any trouble on my account,” he said instead. “Bondemiro obviously knew you.”

Micola snorted in disgust. “Yes, thanks to my parents I’m unfortunately well-acquainted with all the young scions of the royalist aristocracy,” they said, their accent shifting to the upper class cadence it only took on when they were speaking ironically. “I think they hoped he’d be a good influence on me. What a pity I had absolutely no interest in joining the Faculty of Cultural Studies.”

“I’m not sure that man could be a good influence on anyone,” Baldasera said.

Micola barked laughter. “Certainly not,” they agreed. “Regardless, he won’t bother me. He’s renting apartments not far from mine, and the sort of things that go on there—well, let’s just say I could happily blackmail him myself, if I cared to speak to his parents at all.”

Most academics were in the custom of renting apartments in the University quarter—or, in the case of the student aristocrats and merchant heirs, having apartments rented for them by their parents. The exceptions were the ogres, who lived largely with their families in the traditional quarter, and left early in the mornings to walk across town to school: the apartments near the university, like most of the older buildings in Almèreva, weren’t adequately sized for their comfort.

Student apartments were cheap, notorious for shoddy upkeep, and known to cram as many people into as small a space as possible to further cut their costs. It would be far too easy, if Baldasera took one of those rooms, for anyone who wished him ill to access him.

“Coming in from home every morning is a nuisance,” he said, “but I’m glad not to live in this quarter.”

The look Micola cast him said they had grasped the direction of his thoughts quite precisely.

_“I’m moving out next week,” Raniero says. “I wanted to tell you first.”_

_They are in the public square, loitering by the fountain in front of the Garden Temple. It’s high summer, which means the sundown curfew comes late in the evening; Baldasera and his brother are not the only ogres taking advantage of the chance to relax outdoors after dinner. Raniero is smoking a pipe. Baldasera has no idea when he started that: he’s never done it at home._

_He tries to picture their parents’ house without his brother in it, and his mind just—stalls. “What?” he says. “Why?”_

_Raniero blows out a cloud of smoke, shifting his weight against the low stone wall where he’s leaning. He’s not wearing his shawl; Baldasera had thought it was merely a concession to the heat, but now he has to wonder. “I just… need to get out of here,” his brother says. “Nonno keeps talking about finding me a wife, wanting me to settle down and raise a family, and how I should stop working on the docks so I can apprentice to Papà at the tailor’s—I don’t want that life, Seruccio. You understand?”_

_With a sick twist of fear, it occurs to Baldasera to wonder how much his brother knows. His eyes show no tendency towards the figures of the women passing by; he hates all talk of marriage. Has Raniero guessed the cause? Still, he cannot deny his sympathy. He nods. “Where will you live?” he asks. It’s so rare for any ogre to leave home before their wedding, and Baldasera finds he cannot summon up a picture of his brother living alone, or in a rooming house. Those things scarcely exist here._

_“I have some friends who live near the docks,” Raniero says. He and Baldasera are only four years apart, and despite Baldasera’s spectacles people say they resemble each other. They’re bulky even for ogres—thick muscle under a heavy layer of fat—with broad noses and olive brown skin and a full head of dark curls. But in this moment Raniero looks unfathomably grown up, for all that he’s only twenty-two.“They’ve offered me a room with them, if I can pay my share. It’s not much, but it’s a good start, and I can make it my own.”_

_For a long moment all Baldasera can do is gape at him. ”But—that’s the old part of the city,” he says. Will Raniero even be able to properly fit into his new room? And— “You won’t be safe there,” he blurts. At least in the ogres’ quarter they have strength in numbers._

_But Raniero just shrugs and squeezes his shoulder as he puffs on his pipe. “This is Almèreva, little brother,” he says. “We’re not safe anywhere.”_

The building that housed the College of Mages was at least as old as Antelini Hall—but, unlike the rest of the university, the College had never restricted entrance by either gender or species. Though it hadn’t originally been built with ogres in mind, the mages had had centuries over which to make adjustments, and considerable raw power with which to make them. So it was that as he and Micola hurried up the front steps and through the corridors to the lecture hall where Master della Scalla taught, Baldasera felt at ease in his movements as he rarely did outside the traditional quarter.

They had arrived in good time: the lecturer’s podium was still unoccupied and the students were milling about, laughing and debating, nearly all of them with their eyes concealed behind the mages’ customary lenses. There were more ogres and dwarves in the crowd than Baldasera saw at his own lectures, and more women as well—another reason he liked coming here. And, for an added attraction, all the benches in the hall were sturdy enough to take his weight: he could sit wherever he pleased.

Micola steered them to a centre row in the middle bank—far enough back that Baldasera didn’t have to worry about blocking anyone’s view, but close enough to see the lecture materials straight on, even with his nearsightedness. Soon a gaggle of Micola’s friends had drifted over to join them, all of them familiar faces. There was another ogre, Marano, his eyes a startling bright pink against gold-tinted skin; the Natale siblings, dwarves, she stoic but friendly, he animated nearly to the point of frenzy; and the elves—Grissoni, who more often than not drove Micola to distraction; Taiapetra, stunningly beautiful and so dark-skinned she was nearly a true black; and Stornello, who listened with an intense focus whenever Baldasera spoke of his natural philosophy studies, and never forgot anything. The first time Micola had brought him to the College, they had folded him effortlessly into their company: he wasn’t a mage, and this was not his faculty, but they made him feel that he belonged.

Grissoni had seated himself on Micola’s other side and launched without preamble into what appeared to be an ongoing argument about the topic of della Scalla’s most recent lecture. Baldasera had attended that one, but he nevertheless observed, fascinated, that he only understood about forty percent of what they were saying. The mechanics of thaumaturgy—miracle working—were engaging as a subject, and more related to a physician’s work than most of what Micola studied, but without practicing magic himself Baldasera would in some respects always be hopelessly at sea.

He was so involved in attempting to decipher exactly what they were disagreeing on, in fact, that he didn’t notice the time passing until Taiapetra said, “Shouldn’t della Scalla be here by now?”

Baldasera looked up. All the students had settled into their seats, but the chatter hadn’t yet diminished, because the podium was still empty. There was no clock in the lecture hall, but it had certainly been at least ten minutes since he and Micola had arrived. “That’s odd,” he said, trying to brush off the sudden foreboding that fluttered to life in his gut. “Perhaps he’s ill?”

“They typically substitute another lecturer if a master takes ill,” Elena Natale said.

Stornello stood, slinging her satchel over her shoulders. “I’ll go see if anyone knows anything.”

She left the hall. Five minutes passed, then ten; still there was no sign of della Scalla. Gradually Baldasera heard the buzz of conversation turning to speculation on their lecturer’s whereabouts. He couldn’t help the miasma of unease creeping through him, despite his best efforts—especially when he looked to Micola and saw the bleak cast to their expression.

They leaned towards him; Baldasera put his head down so they could murmur directly into his ear. “I heard the Red Door was raided the other night,” they said, barely voiced.

One of the moth clubs. Baldasera felt a lance of fear cut through him. There were already enough reasons to suspect the Seneschal might have orchestrated the disappearance of a university mage; it hadn’t even occurred to him to look for a reason closer to home. “You think he was there?”

“I don’t know,” Micola said, still in an undertone inaudible to their seatmates. “It’s a bit far from the university, but—I know he was… one of us.”

Baldasera doesn’t ask how; the answer is obvious.

_He is nineteen years old the first time he visits a moth club, in the middle of his apprenticeship as a barber-surgeon; his master, Signora Marte Karelo, is the one who takes him there. She is middle-aged—past fifty years old—and has lived her whole life happily unmarried in the home her parents left her. She has also spent most of it dressing like a man. It had taken Baldasera an embarrassingly long time to realize she was like him—but he had quite simply never considered before that he might not be alone._

_Now they are hurrying through the streets under late afternoon clouds, making for a social parlour she is fond of. Curfew has nearly started. They won’t have to worry about getting home—the ogres’ quarter has been getting around curfew for decades by the simple expedient of linking their apartments with interior doors and allowing each other to walk through them—but she says that, at least the first time, he ought to come in by the front._

_The house, when they reach it, appears entirely ordinary. It is only when Signora Karelo scuffs her foot unobtrusively on the cobbles by the doorstep that he notices the outline of a moth marked there._

_Signora Karelo knocks, and the door swings open. The ogre who greets them looks like a typical housewife; if Baldasera hadn’t known better, he never would have suspected a thing._

_“Yes?” she says._

_“I’m Marte Karelo,” his master says. “I’ve visited before. This is my apprentice, Baldasera.”_

_The woman closes the door._

_“Is something wrong?” Baldasera says, faintly alarmed._

_Signora Karelo chuckles. “Not at all,” she says. “She’s consulting the membership book. They can’t just let anyone in.”_

_Sure enough, the woman opens the door again, all smiles. “Wonderful to see you again, Marte. And so lovely to meet your guest.”_

_She bustles them inside, through an utterly unremarkable entryway and into a large, open chamber that reminds him of the meeting hall at the back of the Garden Temple. Ogres are sitting in small groups throughout the room, conversing, playing cards, eating dinner, drinking tea. A young woman is perched on the arm of a chair, in much the same way Baldasera’s mother often sits beside his father, but the person she is leaning on is a woman. He spots two elderly men sitting in silence in neighbouring chairs, their hands linked between them as each reads his own book. In the kitchen, a handsome older man catches his wild-eyed look and winks at him, then offers him a cup of tea._

_The yearly membership fee is two ducats—nearly a month of his apprenticeship wages. Baldasera has paid it within half an hour._

Shortly thereafter, Stornello returned to the lecture hall. She was followed closely by an elderly master of the College.

There was a palpable sharpening of attention in the hall as he stepped up to the podium. He rapped his knuckles for silence, and then announced, “Today’s lecture on thaumaturgical mechanics must unfortunately be cancelled. We will arrange for an alternate lecturer to continue the rest of the series on the original schedule.” A susurrus of whispers started up at that, but the unknown master forged ahead as though he couldn’t hear them—and perhaps he couldn’t. He was very old. “If you have any concerns relating to your academic performance, please speak to me in my office. That will be all.”

There was a swell in the whispering, and then a breaking wave of concerned chatter as he turned to leave. Immediately several students got up to follow him, demanding more information in incoherent overlap. Meanwhile, Stornello had made a beeline back to their group, her expression grim.

“What’s going on?” said Jacopo Natale immediately.

But Stornello just shook her head. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want the grand inquisition.”

As there were already several students turning speculatively towards her, this was received with immediate assent. “The Cheap Prayer?” suggested Marano.

“Good place to talk,” said Taiapetra.

They were among the first to exit the lecture hall, Baldasera and Marano taking advantage—for once—of the space afforded them by their size. Together they spilled out onto the front steps of the College of Mages, where Micola stepped up, leading them swiftly through side streets to the tavern most favoured by students of magic.

As it had been explained to Baldasera, the Cheap Prayer was named for a common joke among mages about the comparative values of faith and magic. It wasn’t an ogres’ tavern, but like the College itself it had been refitted centuries ago to accommodate his people; for the sake of space, they didn’t keep the ogre-sized chairs on the floor, but had always cheerfully hauled one out for him no matter how busy they otherwise were. Baldasera liked it: the food was good, the drinks as inexpensive as the name implied, and it was nice to feel genuinely included somewhere.

Stornello ushered them to a back table large enough for their group. Seats were produced for Baldasera and Marano, and Micola ordered two bottles of wine to share, courtesy of their parents’ allowance. And then, once everyone had a glass in front of them and the staff had gone about their business, they all leaned in to hear Stornello’s news.

“Some of this is speculation,” she began.

“Oh, that’s fine,” Grissoni said, faintly ironic. “Since when have your hypotheses ever been wrong?”

“He’s only saying that because he’s still sore she corrected his alchemical proof last week,” put in Marano. After an appropriate pause he added, “She was right, obviously.”

Jacopo clapped Grissoni on the back, to general amusement, as Stornello tipped her head in acknowledgement of the point. “For the sake of completeness,” she said. “So, first of all, his department knows he’s missing. No one’s seen him in three days.”

Baldasera glanced to Micola, wondering if that matched their timeline on the Red Door. Their eyes darted to his, then away. They gave a minute nod.

So much for the hope that they’d ever see della Scalla again, then.

“Do they know why?” Elena was saying.

Stornello shook her head. “They wouldn’t tell _me_ , but no. As far as I could see, it’s not related to the College.”

“And good thing, too,” Grissoni drawled. “We can’t afford an all-out war between us and the Seneschal’s people.”

“Would you _keep your voice down_ ,” Micola said, through gritted teeth.

Grissoni didn’t answer them, but he did take a large swallow of his wine, which conveniently prevented him from speaking.

“They’ve been scrambling around trying to deal with everything,” Stornello continued. “I think they just forgot about the lectures. Della Scalla was involved in research, and wherever he is now, he didn’t have time to pack up his notes. I caught sight of a writ from the Seneschal confiscating his papers.”

“And there are obviously things they don’t want to hand over,” Taiapetra said, wry.

“I saw some people at the College two days ago,” Jacopo said abruptly. “I thought they were secret police. Elena said I was paranoid.”

“You _are_ paranoid,” Elena pointed out, quite reasonably.

“But I was _right_.”

“Children, if you please,” Micola interrupted, rapping their knuckles on the table. They considered for a moment in silence. “I’m meant to have dinner with my parents at the end of the week,” they said. “I’ll see if I can’t ferret out any rumours.”

“Cheers, Chavalerio,” Stornello said, toasting them with her wine before she finished off the glass.

Baldasera couldn’t help himself: he touched the back of Micola’s wrist, a fleeting gesture even among friends. “Be careful,” he said.

“Sanuto, please. Aren’t I always?” they said—but the smile they flashed him didn’t quite reach their eyes.

The balance Micola walked with their family was complex. Their parents knew, of course, that they were studying at the College of Mages—which was frowned upon by those loyal to the Prince for being a power outside the Seneschal’s control, and known for encouraging the University of Almèreva’s radical tendencies. And they knew, or at least had reason to suspect, that Micola had rebellious inclinations they had not been able to stamp out. But as long as they believed that it was mere youthful defiance, they wouldn’t have to accept that their heir was engaged in treason. And while that was still true, Micola was able to access information not available to the rest of them—not to mention the resources they could quietly appropriate to keep their friends afloat.

But Baldasera had no doubt that if Micola’s parents discovered their true political opinions—to say nothing of their sexual proclivities, their occasional crossdressing, their ambiguous relationship to gender—they would hand them over to the secret police without a second thought. Baldasera was constrained by his family’s expectations, their adherence to tradition, their fears for his safety; the constraints on Micola were much more urgent. They couldn’t even use their real name outside of private conversations with trusted friends: it was too obvious, otherwise, that they answered to a woman’s name.

_“Well?” Micola says, twisting first one way and then the other. “What do you think?”_

_They are in another rented room at the same club where they first met. Baldasera has been to Micola’s apartments twice, but it’s safer to fuck somewhere securely anonymous—not to mention easier for him to get up the stairs. Today Micola had arrived in an unseasonably heavy cloak, long enough to brush the cobblestones as they walk, and kept it on all the way up to the bedroom. Now, with the door locked behind them and a secret little smile on their lips, they have thrown it off to reveal that they’re wearing a gown._

_Baldasera cannot tear his eyes away. He has seen them in makeup and jewellery before—lip stain and rouge and elaborate earrings that they always take care to remove before they leave—but this is different. The dress is brocade, tangled fruits and flowers picked out in a profusion of shimmering colours on wine red satin. The forepart of the dress is the exact same shade of fiery orange as their eyes; the trim and lacing are in gold. Beneath the gown, the line of a corset gives definition to the curve of their waist, and a fine white chemise peeks up at their collar, hinting at a bust. Their sleeves are tied on with the same careless grace that characterizes their typical academic’s robe, the fabric of the chemise puffing out at the wrists, elbows, and shoulders in exactly the manner of a fashionable highborn lady. They are still wearing their tinted spectacles._

_Baldasera has become aware since he started at the university of a growing attraction to elves and dwarves: the unfamiliar, the forbidden, the deviant, just as his attraction to men. He has never been more turned on than he is right now._

_“You’re incredible,” he says, and has to swallow hard to get his voice to work. He lifts his hand, inviting them to join him on the bed. “Come here.”_

_Micola smiles then, helpless and brilliant, with none of their typical bite or artifice. They place their hand in his as they settle onto his lap, and nothing in the world could prevent him from smoothing his palm down the line of their waist as he wraps his arm around them to draw them in. He kisses them, firm and insistent, and there’s a flush in their cheeks when he pulls away that owes nothing to their pots of makeup._

_“So, you like it, then?” they say, a breathless effort at their usual insouciance._

_“You look like yourself,” he tells them, and kisses them again._

_When he fucks them this time, their hand tangled in his hair and their head thrown back against the mattress, he strips himself bare, as usual, but leaves their dress on. Looking back on it later, he will recognize this as the beginning of the end._

Stornello had no further news.

Talk turned, equally low-voiced, to the university’s most recent act of defiance against the Prince’s regime: just two weeks ago, a small group of scholars had gone to Talenezia Square to bring medical aid to the prisoners on display there. Most had been members of the College of Mages—the chief reason the few who were caught had only been thrown in jail for a week, and not imprisoned on a more permanent basis—and to Baldasera’s horror it seemed they were intending a second attempt. He listened as the table discussed it, unease blossoming in his chest, but only came to realize how serious it was when Stornello turned to him and said, “Sanuto, you’re training as a physician. We could use your help.”

He nearly choked on his wine. “Wait—you were involved?” he said.

She nodded, once. “I was one of the ones who got away.”

Baldasera looked around the table. “And the rest of you?”

“I wasn’t there,” Taiapetra said softly, “but I’m going this time.”

“So am I,” said Marano.

“I’m not,” Grissoni said wryly. He was sitting back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest. “I’m attached to my neck, I’d rather not risk it.”

Stornello waved him off, her intent focus still fixed on Baldasera. “So?” she prompted. “Will you come?”

Baldasera stared at her helplessly. “I—I can’t. Penitent’s tears, Stornello, I can’t do that to my family. You know how the Seneschal’s people treat ogres.”

“Marano’s an ogre,” Stornello began, but Marano preempted her, covering her blocky hand with his own.

“It’s different,” he said, giving Baldasera a sympathetic nod. “The College wouldn’t be able to protect him.”

“My mother worries every time I so much as come up for a lecture,” Baldasera said miserably. “She would hate to know I was even _talking_ to mages. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to justify it,” Micola said. There was a hard edge to their voice that Baldasera couldn’t decipher. “We know. No one would expect you to.”

Baldasera did his best not to show how much that hurt. Micola and the others had welcomed him into their midst, but in moments like this it was obvious how vast the gulf between them truly was. And still he stayed, desperately pining after someone who had never expressed the slightest interest in him beyond the same affection they gave to all their friends and bedmates.

He swallowed down self-pity and turned to Micola. “Are _you_ planning to go?” he said.

They waved their hand dismissively. “This isn’t something one speaks of in public, Sanuto, you know that. And, on that note—” this with an unimpressed look around the rest of the table— “might we move on to less deadly topics?”

“Chavalerio,” Baldasera began, but Micola gestured him to silence.

“No, I said I won’t talk about it, and I meant it. Now, who attended that lecture on folding spellwork into blown glass last week? Because I have a number of critiques on Master Caresini’s methodology—”

Redirecting conversation was surely chief among Micola’s many talents. The table exploded into furious debate, and soon they were embroiled in dispute not just with Grissoni but also with Taiapetra and Jacopo, while Elena and Stornello looked on and Marano provoked all sides indiscriminately. Baldasera sat back, trying to quell the anxiety that had swollen up in his throat. Normally he loved to watch Micola argue on incomprehensible mage topics, but now he couldn’t shake the image of their beautiful face beaten and broken by the Seneschal’s guards as they were tossed into a windowless cell.

The afternoon wore on. The glassblowing argument wound down, and conversation turned to the alchemy proofs half the table was engaged in producing for one of their workshops. Micola ordered another bottle of wine, and then plates of cicchetti for a late luncheon—olives, peppers, cuts of fish, shaved meats, tiny boiled eggs, all with slices of crusty bread to pile them on. Normally Baldasera loved tavern food, but he found he could only pick at his share.

Finally he couldn’t bear it any longer. He leaned over to Micola, letting his hand rest briefly at the small of their back where no one else could see. “Can we talk?” he said. “Somewhere private? Just for a moment.”

The look they gave him was speculative, then resigned. “Yes, alright,” they said. “I suppose I’d best get it over with.”

They left the remaining wine to be divided amongst the others and pushed back their chair, and Baldasera followed them into the corridor that led to the tavern’s rear entrance. They didn’t make for the door, though: instead they ducked behind the second floor stairs, stepping into the shadowed storage alcove there that held just enough empty space for two people, if one was an ogre and neither was too bothered about getting close. They were alone. Even the sounds of the taproom had faded to a dim background murmur.

“Alright, let’s hear it then,” Micola said. “Only I’m quite sure I know what you’re going to say.”

Baldasera had long ago resigned himself to predictability where Micola was concerned. “You’re going to Talenezia Square,” he said. It was not quite an accusation.

They sighed. “Yes, I am,” they said. Their hands were resting against his sternum—seeking contact or enforcing distance, in this space too small for them to gesture as they typically would. “You’re well aware I’ve been studying thaumaturgy—Sera, I can’t stand the thought of having this power and always being too afraid to use it.”

 _Sera_ , his mind echoed, his pulse beating in his throat. Only Micola ever called him that, and only ever when they were alone. “And if they catch you?” he said. “You could be beaten, jailed, disappeared—”

“I’m not afraid of the Seneschal,” Micola snapped.

Baldasera’s grip tightened on their waist of its own accord. “You should be,” he said, his voice shaking. “You should be.” What would he do, if Micola was hurt, and he hadn’t been there to protect them? How would he bear it?

“I don’t intend to be _caught_ , Sera,” they said. The bite in their voice was belied by the spread of their hands against his chest, deliberate and familiar. “You’re aware of my advantages. Well, I intend to do something with them—I will _not_ become my parents.”

Stung, Baldasera flinched back. “That’s unfair.”

For a moment they only looked at him, and then their eyes widened in comprehension. “No,” they said. “I didn’t mean—I’m not talking about _you_ , darling, I only meant—I can’t keep living like this, surely you can see that? Petty rebellions, keeping the peace, never being able to so much as dress like myself—”

“And if they found you out,” Baldasera said. He couldn’t keep the pleading from his voice. “Not the Seneschal’s guards. Forget about that. What if your parents discovered what you’ve been doing? If they have reason to suspect you—there’s so much worse they could learn than you tending to a few prisoners, you said yourself you always thought they’d turn you in—”

“I know!” Micola said, thumping their palm against his chest in emphasis. Then they took a deep breath, seeming to collect themself. “I know. I’ll take precautions. But you’re not going to change my mind, Sera, so just let it go.”

Baldasera felt like he was going to break at any moment. In the shadows of the alcove all he could see was the line of Micola’s profile, the fall of their hair, the glint of their spectacles reflecting back what little light there was—but every inch of their body was as familiar to him as his own. More so, in fact: they lived behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes. And yet still they weren’t his, would never be his, and here was all the proof of that he needed.

“Micola, please,” he said.

Whatever reaction he had expected, it wasn’t the one he got. “Don’t,” they hissed, grabbing at the front of his robe with both fists and hauling him in against them. “Don’t _call_ me that here, it’s not safe—”

A hysterical laugh tried to claw its way out of his throat. “Nowhere is safe,” he said. “Micola. _Coletta_. It’s never going to be _safe_.” Never going to be safe to love you, he meant, and: I’m going to do it anyway. Their name on his lips was a prayer in the dark. “Coletta. Coletta. I’m so afraid I’ll lose you—”

“Stop it,” they snapped, and then they were surging up to kiss him, gasping and desperate, teeth clumsy against his tusks as they had never been, not even at the beginning. Baldasera moaned and wrapped his arms around them, lifting them up to brace them against his body, and Micola straddled his thigh to grind against him. They were alone together but not in private, concealed without being secured, but the sudden urgency between them had swept everything else away.

“Please, Sera,” Micola said, their mouth against his lips. They shifted their weight, urging him backward, and he took a stumbling step and came down hard on piled crates, just the right height for him to sit back against. Micola immediately took advantage, clambering onto his lap to press their cocks together. Baldasera was already half-hard—hadn’t realized it until that moment—and he groaned and pressed his face into their neck, grabbing their ass with both hands and pulling them in tight against him.

“Fuck,” they gasped, and dropped their hands to start pulling at his robe.

A scholar’s robe buttoned from collar to thigh; below that it hung open in draping folds to mid-calf. Many students simply wore it open, Micola included, but Baldasera had always preferred his closed. Now Micola tugged the buttons from their fastenings quicker than he would have thought possible, digging their fingers into the front of his shirt and dragging their hands down his chest. Baldasera groaned again, then bit down on his lip to silence the other sounds he wanted to make.

Their fingers slid to the placket on his trousers, catching at the laces. “Wait,” he said, even as his hips bucked up into their touch, “if someone sees us—”

Micola interrupted him with a hard kiss. “No one will see,” they said, low and fierce, and twisted sideways to sketch a shimmering sigil into the air between the two of them and the rest of the tavern. They turned back to him, taking his face between their hands and kissing him again, thorough and intent and absolute. “I’ll take care of you, Sera, I swear it. No matter what I have to do.”

Baldasera had to close his eyes against the dizzying rush of desire that swamped him. “Fuck—Coletta, _please_.”

They unlaced his trousers and wrapped their hand around him, pumping him to full hardness in moments. His dick jerked under their touch, and he let out a choked noise before burying his face in their neck again, crushing his spectacles to the bridge of his nose. Without letting him go Micola reached one-handed for their own laces—undoing them deftly and pushing their trousers out of the way, pressing up against him, adjusting their grip to circle their fingers around themself as well. The sound they made at the friction of their cocks rubbing together was very nearly a whine.

“Oh—oh, that’s it,” Baldasera said. With their trousers loosened he had the space to shove his hands under their clothes—searching out bare skin, gripping their ass in one palm while his other hand slid lower. He pressed his fingers against their hole, teasing at entrance without pushing inside them, and was rewarded by them whining again and jolting in his arms as they thrust against his dick. “That’s perfect, Coletta, you’re perfect—”

“Sera—please—oh, you’re so big,” they said. They couldn’t seem to decide if they wanted more to press back into his hand or forward into his hips. Gradually he pushed his fingers inside them, making them twist in his grasp, frantic and needy. Their hand, which had been dry when they began, was slick now with sweat and precome where it was wrapped around their cocks. Their other hand was braced on Baldasera’s collar, gripping tightly to the shawl still draped about his shoulders, and absurdly it was that which his mind had snagged upon. He thought of a room where he could have Micola to himself—could lay them out on the bed, naked but for that fall of deep blue cotton over their body—could wrap it in soft loops around their forearms and tie them to the headboard while he went down on them, languorous and slow like they had all the time in the world. He ached for that so much he nearly sobbed with it.

“Fuck—Sera, please, I’m going to—” Micola was gasping, and then they spilled themself across his cock and his stomach with a shaky cry, shuddering openly against him.

An instant later they had slid from his lap, urging him to lean back against the crates and shoving his knees apart to stand between his legs. Baldasera barely had time to react before they bent their head to him, licking his stomach clean and swallowing him down, and he had to press his knuckles to his mouth to contain a shout. He was too big for them to take him very far, but that didn’t stop them from trying—never had—and it took no time at all for him to start to come unravelled. Cautiously he laid his palm against their hair, and they pulled off his cock with a gasp and an obscene wet sound, butting up against his hand.

“Hold me down until you come,” they said, their voice ragged and wrecked, and Baldasera’s mind went entirely blank.

He barely lasted a minute.

Micola didn’t move far when he released them, just turned their head to rest against his thigh and tipped their face up towards him. He stroked his fingers through their hair, trying to summon his scattered thoughts, and found he quite simply didn’t know what to say.

“Coletta,” he said, his voice hushed.

Micola said nothing, nothing, nothing, until finally they breathed out, a warm gust of air on his damp skin. “We should go,” they said. “That spell only lasts a short time.”

Baldasera stilled his hand. “Oh,” he said. “I suppose we should.”

They adjusted their clothes and hair in the dark with a skill born of long practice. Micola had lost their lenses in the heat of the moment, and finally had to summon a flare of light into their hand to locate them again. Baldasera’s spectacles were still on his face, but the nosepiece had been bent; silently he reshaped it until they sat correctly once more. The space between their bodies seemed fragile and unreal. Already he could hardly believe what had passed between them only moments before.

“Would you think better of me,” he said, “if I was brave enough to come with you when you go to Talenezia?” He hadn’t been aware he had even wondered at the answer.

“What?” Micola said, seeming genuinely shocked.

Distantly Baldasera wondered if he ought to be proud: it was rare that he could surprise them.

But the question had distressed them. “Sera, no,” they said, with a sharp gesture of negation. “In the Penitent’s holy Name, _no_. I want you to be safe. I don’t want you anywhere _near_ Talenezia.”

Baldasera swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “But you won’t do the same.”

Micola hesitated, and then seemed to deflate. “No,” they said. “I’m sorry, darling. I just can’t. Please understand that.”

“Fine,” he said. He didn’t let himself think about what he was agreeing to. “But if you’re going to insist on doing this, you’d better swear to me you’ll come back in one piece.”

Carefully, tentatively, they reached out to him, smoothing their fingers over his cheek. Their face was in shadow; he couldn’t begin to guess at their expression.

“I will,” they said. “I swear it.”

For a frozen moment they just looked at each other, and then Baldasera sighed and got to his feet. “Alright,” he said. “Thank you.” He did his best not to think about how pathetically little that promise really meant. It was more than he ought to have asked, in any case—after all, what right did he have to make demands on their life? If they were willing to give him this small comfort despite everything, he would take it and be grateful.

Abruptly Micola said, “Come home with me tonight.”

Baldasera nearly stumbled. For a moment he felt like the floor had tilted out from under him. “What?” he said. Surely he couldn’t have heard that right.

But all they added was, “Please.”

He stared at them, his thoughts chasing circles through his mind. He had a thousand reasons to say no, and only one to accept. His parents would be terrified if he wasn’t home for the curfew. It wasn’t safe. The stairs were cramped, the doorways too small, and the bed barely large enough for him alone, to say nothing of the both of them. There was no way to keep his presence concealed, and anyone who saw him might suspect. He was sick with love and didn’t know where he could lay it down.

“Please,” Micola repeated. “Someone must be able take a message to your family.”

And Baldasera shut his eyes and said, “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/october_burns). I have a [blog](https://octoberburns.wordpress.com/). Come chat writing and book recs with me! And if you like my stories, I'd love it if you'd help support my work.


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